


For the Night Was Dark and the Sea Was Loud

by iwtv



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/F, F/M, Flint turning dark(er), pre-season 3 ficlet, vengeful thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 09:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5086012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwtv/pseuds/iwtv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little inspiration from the season 3 trailers on Flint's evident turn to the dark side. Takes place after Charlestown but before the return to Nassau.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Night Was Dark and the Sea Was Loud

The storm had been gathering strength for the last hour. Now as dusk changed over to dark, it was a slow but heavy buildup of ash-colored clouds. Thunder and lightning came with them, filling the air with an almost palpable energy.  
James Flint stood on the far end of the quarterdeck, not facing his ship and crew as was his usual habit but instead staring out at the man o’war’s wake, eyes drifting over where he had been. Only the light from the two stern lanterns revealed the mass of ocean around him in their gloomy light. He was at the railing, seeking the calm of the back of the ship and not the spray of sea nor the relentless up and down plunge of the bow—things which usually excited him, gave him a sense of giddiness, if not something akin to peace.

Now, however, his thoughts were anything but peaceful. They were perhaps two days away from returning to New Providence and he felt a deep-seated burn, like slow-moving liquor, in his gut.

Miranda’s death had transformed him. He wore his grief like a heavy yolk over his shoulders and he didn’t care who knew it. That was part of the transformation. He’d lashed out at crew several times since they had departed Charlestown, with venom on his tongue and in his eyes. He wanted them to know he was angry, that he was out for England’s heart. He wanted to hold it in his hand and squeezed until it ruptured.

He looked down at the red leather book clutched in his hand. It sat on the top of the railing, half of it dangling precariously over the ocean. He’d gripped it by the binding moments before and had turned his arm, muscles tensed to throw it overboard.  
It would be a seaman’s funeral for both of them.

But he couldn’t do it, try as he might. So now there it sat conflictingly, a reflection of his thoughts.

He figured Thomas—at last—would have understood the coarse he’d set for himself. He’d loved Miranda as well, and her death was something even his pacifist nature would not have allowed, James told himself. He wanted blood; Thomas would understand his absolute hatred of England at last. He would want vengeance for Miranda. He would.

James gripped the book tighter, thumb running over the golden text along its spine.

*Just drop it,* he said to himself. If he could not throw it then he could simply let go, yet his hand remained on the book, slowly bringing it back to his side. He remembered the promise he’d made to Charlestown, growled out through clenched teeth: '…Since you are so convinced that I am yours, I shall be it.'

He would keep that promise; a blood oath now, sealed with Miranda’s innocent blood; he would live and breathe it until he had forced England away from New Providence and scared the piss out of anyone who would dare claim it—the only home he had left—as his own. Yes, Thomas would understand. England had taken everything. They would not take this.

With a barely concealed cry he flung "Meditations" into the air and watched as the angry winds tossed it about in a spiral, then sucked it down into the churning water.

A small voice from deep within him cried out in despair at this act, berated him for it. He’d loved Miranda. He’d loved Thomas. Now they were both gone, and now he stilled the small voice, hushed it up and strangled it until it was no more. The book symbolized them, the past. Love.

Love made one weak and now he needed to be strong.

He suddenly glanced around the rest of the ship, having momentarily forgot his place. Crew members attended their duties or milled about or were going below deck to escape the coming tempest. None were paying any attention to him. None had seen the book thrown overboard or heard its splash, for the night was dark and the sea was loud.**

 

**John Drake, "Skull and Bones"


End file.
